Fire and Ice
by Marianna Morgan
Summary: Missing Scene for 8x21 – Sick, Feverish Sam / Worried, Big Brother Dean – Sam had followed through with their plan and had managed to call Dean before dropping like a rock.
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Missing Scene for 8x21 – Sick, Feverish Sam / Worried, Big Brother Dean – Sam had followed through with their plan and had managed to call Dean before dropping like a rock.

**Disclaimer**: Not mine

**Warnings**: Usual language, plus spoilers for season eight (specifically 8x21).

* * *

_I'm burning up with fever. ~ Gene Simmons_

* * *

Dean lingered in the doorway of their hotel room; one foot in the hall, one foot still in the room.

...which was symbolic of how Dean felt right now – half hunter, half big brother; half wanting to further research the case, half wanting to forget the case and just stay with Sam.

Pale, weak, sick, exhausted, feverish, _vulnerable_ Sam who alternated between being vaguely lucid one minute...to fondly reminiscing about farting donkeys the next.

And perhaps even more puzzling – and concerning – was that the farting donkey story had never even happened.

"You remember when, uh...when Dad took us to the bottom of the Grand Canyon on that pack mule ride?" Sam had asked out of nowhere a few minutes ago, sprawled on his back on the bed farthest from the door with his arm slung over his forehead.

Sitting on the opposite bed, Dean had blinked at the unexpected question.

Because actually, no – he didn't remember that.

"The what?" Dean had asked in return.

And a coherent Sam would've recognized the confused tone.

But tired, feverish, _loopy_ Sam had kept talking as if Dean had not spoken.

"...and your, ah...your mule kept...farting..."

Dean had blinked again, had even glanced around the room wondering what the hell was going on as Sam had continued to haltingly describe gale-force winds erupting from a mule's ass and then had laughed; the kid apparently having found it pretty damn funny.

Still sitting on the bed beside Sam's, Dean had shaken his head and sighed.

Because yeah, okay.

Fine.

Whatever you say, Sammy...

Dean had enough experience with a loopy little brother to know when to just roll with whatever crazy shit Sam came up with.

And right then, that option had seemed better than asking Sam what the fuck he was talking about...and had been easier than trying to reason with Sam when the kid was creating his own fever-induced, fatigue-fueled memories.

Dean had shaken his head again. "Dude, you were, like, four-years old..." he had told his brother.

Even though if this had really happened, there was _no way_ Dean would have ever agreed to allow a four-year old Sam to ride a donkey by himself, especially on what must be a steep, treacherous trail.

No way.

The kid would have been riding double with Dean, regardless of what John might have said.

But whatever – this had been Sam's made-up memory, and Dean had been rolling with it.

So...

"_I_ barely remember that..." Dean had added about this adventure from their childhood.

...which was true – because there was nothing to remember.

This pack mule trip had never happened.

Hell, they had never even _been_ to the Grand Canyon, much less to the bottom of the damn thing.

And they had certainly never gone on a trial ride to the bottom with John.

It wasn't like their dad was the vacationing type or like they would have ever had extra money to spend on something like that.

But none of those details had seemed to matter to Sam as he had laughed again, genuinely amused and still sprawled on his back with his arm over his face.

"Ahhh..." Sam had sighed in that loopy, sleepy way he sometimes did when he was this tired. "You rode a farty donkey..."

And with that, Dean had been officially done with this stupid conversation about something that had never even happened.

Dean had shaken his head. "Okay..." he had replied – more of a dismissal than an agreement – and had refocused on the brochure he had brought upstairs from the lobby.

Sam had continued to laugh.

Dean had continued to ignore him.

It was sometimes the best thing to do when Sam was drunk, high on meds, or strung-out from fever and fatigue. Just leave the kid to his own little world until he slept it off...and then tease the hell out of him later.

Dean had nodded, had twitched a smile.

Because that part would be fun – but this part, not so much.

Dean had sighed. "I'm gonna go check out the Two Rivers Tribal Museum and Trading Post," he had announced, reading the name from the front of the brochure he had still held and then had flipped it over to find directions to the place.

Sam had immediately sat up. "Yep. Yeah...I'm 'onna, I'm 'onna, um...I'm 'onna follow the hotel manager, D-Dr. Scowly-Scowl. He's like a villain from _Scooby-Doo_."

And yeah, that wasn't happening.

Because first of all, Sam had just slurred his words all to shit.

Second of all, Sam had just made up a name based on a guy's expression and then had compared that name to a cartoon character.

And last but not least, Sam was so exhausted that he had just sat there, staring blankly at the wall.

How the hell did this kid think he was going to stay awake and on his feet long enough to follow anybody anywhere?

Dean had shaken his head.

Because Sam wasn't going out into the world unless Dean was there to watch him, and Dean had something else he needed to do right now, so...

"No. Hey, ah...Little Big Man..." Dean had called, reaching for his brother and grasping Sam's shoulder.

Sam had slightly startled and had stared up at him, wide-eyed...like he had momentarily forgotten that Dean was even there.

And that was nice. That was encouraging about Sam's condition.

Not to mention that Sam had looked spacey as hell – like a five-year old doped up on meds.

Dean had inwardly sighed. "_You..._" he had told his brother, still grasping Sam's shoulder and holding his gaze. "...should get some rest."

There had been a pause, Sam's gaze flickering between Dean's face and Dean's hand.

Dean had braced himself for an argument.

But then...

"Yeah, I can do that, too..." Sam had readily agreed and had flopped backwards; had landed in a boneless heap on the mattress, his hair fanned out across the pillow, seemingly instantly asleep.

No argument, no fight – just lights out.

Dean had blinked. "Okay..." he had commented, surprised and concerned by how easy that had been.

Because healthy, coherent, well-rested Sam would have bitched about being ordered to stay behind in the hotel room.

But Sam hadn't been healthy, coherent, or well-rested in weeks.

Dean had rubbed his hand over his face at the unwelcomed reminder, had stared at his sleeping brother and had tried not to dwell on how quickly Sam was deteriorating as a result of the trials.

But facts were facts – and the most worrying fact right then had been the heat Dean had felt through Sam's shirt when he had just touched his brother's shoulder.

Dean had frowned, had taken advantage of Sam being asleep and had palmed his brother's forehead, further confirming the rising fever.

"Great..." Dean had growled and had shaken his head, slipping his hand from beneath Sam's sweaty bangs. "Just great..."

Because now what?

Should Dean be a good hunter and go to the museum across town to ask questions and see what he could find out about their case?

Or should he be a good brother and stay with Sam, whose fever felt a few degrees away from being scary and dangerous?

Dean had sighed.

Because that decision was always easy – being a good brother always took priority over being a good hunter.

But Sam was asleep..._finally._

And as exhausted as Sam was, he would likely _stay_ asleep for at least the next two or three hours.

So theoretically, in a perfect world...Dean had time to do _both_ – to be a good hunter, check out the museum, interrogate whoever was there...and then come back to the hotel to spend the rest of the day with Sam.

To humor made-up memories, apply cold washcloths, and tolerate any clinginess or professions of brotherly love that usually occurred whenever Sam's fever reached a certain level.

Dean had snorted and rolled his eyes, anticipating an entertaining afternoon and evening with his little brother...even though Dean knew he would be tired and completely drained of patience by the time it was over.

But that was later.

Right then, he had a decision to make.

Dean had sighed, had glanced again at the brochure still in his hand.

Because according to the directions on the back, the museum was only ten minutes away, which meant Dean would return to the hotel in plenty of time before Sam woke up.

Hell, with as out-of-it as Sam had been just moments ago, the kid might not even realize Dean had left at all.

But then again, Sam needed to know that Dean was leaving in case Sam got worse while Dean was gone and needed to get in touch with him.

Dean had nodded, making his decision.

He would go to the museum and do his job...and then he would come back to the hotel and do his _real_ job – take care of Sam.

But first...

"Sammy..." Dean had called, hating to wake his brother but needing the kid to hear this.

Sam had stirred at the sound of Dean's voice.

"Sam..." Dean had tried once more.

Sam had shifted on the mattress and had blinked open his eyes, squinting up at Dean.

Dean had smiled patiently and had allowed his brother time to focus...or at least focus as much as Sam could right then.

Dean had cleared his throat. "Listen..." he had told his brother as Sam had continued to blink up at him. "I'm leaving for a little while, okay? Gonna go see what I can find out at that museum across town."

Sam had said nothing but had frowned at the news as if he had not liked the idea of Dean leaving; had not liked the idea of being left alone.

Dean had tried to ignore the stab of guilt in his chest. "I won't be gone long," he had promised Sam. "But if you need me, call me. Got it?"

Sam had blinked.

"Sammy..." Dean had prompted, because this was serious.

Dean had needed a response from his brother.

"Sammy. You hear me?"

"Mmhmm..." Sam had hummed, had closed his eyes as if their conversation was over.

Dean had frowned. "Sam..."

"Need you, call you..." Sam had drowsily paraphrased, his eyes still closed. "Got it." He had swallowed. "Be safe, 'kay? Bye-bye."

Dean had chuckled softly, because sometimes Sam was fucking hilarious just by saying the simplest things in that loopy tone of voice that mimicked childlike innocence.

"Yeah, bye-bye yourself..." Dean had returned affectionately and had shaken his head as his brother had fallen back asleep.

This kid...

A few seconds had passed.

Dean had sighed, had checked Sam's fever one more time, and then had crossed to the hotel room door...where he was lingering now.

"This is ridiculous..." Dean muttered, feeling like a nervous mother leaving her baby for the first time, and advised himself to get a grip.

Because Sam would be fine.

Sure, the kid was pale and sick and feverish...but he was also finally _sleeping_, which was one of the best things for him right now.

And yeah, Sam was vulnerable; was too weak and too incoherent to defend himself or even _help_ himself if something should happen.

But Dean wouldn't be gone long.

Ten minutes across town...maybe 30 minutes tops at the museum...then ten minutes back to the hotel...with a possible pit stop by the corner grocery store to replenish a few supplies if Sam hadn't called him before then.

Dean nodded.

It was good plan.

All he needed to do now was move his ass and set it in motion...which wasn't happening as long as he stood in the doorway of their room staring at a sleeping Sam.

Dean nodded again and sighed. "Okay. I'm going..." he relented, silencing his inner dialogue. "See ya soon, Sammy..." he quietly told his brother over his shoulder and closed the door behind him.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	2. Chapter 2

Ten minutes later, Dean was across town; wandering around the museum, looking at artifacts, and listening about the Two Rivers tribe. Learning more than he wanted to know about the harsh and stony land they had come to many years ago, which supposedly was the home on earth of the Great Spirit's sacred messenger...and blah, blah, blah.

It was fascinating and useful, and Dean appreciated this guy's time and knowledge – but he was also bored and distracted and hey, Mr. Museum Man...let's just skip to the good part, okay?

Dean sighed, knowing Sam would be silently bitchfacing him right now for being rude, and twitched a smile at the thought of his brother as he continued to glance around the museum, wondering if Sam was okay back at the hotel.

If Sam was still asleep...

If Sam's fever was higher or lower or about the same...

If Sam even remembered that Dean was gone and that he should call his big brother if he needed him...

Because Dean would be there _so freakin' fast _if he got that call.

Speaking of...

Dean casually patted his phone in the pocket of his coat, making sure it was indeed still there since he hadn't heard it ring or felt it vibrate.

But yeah...it was there.

So, good.

That was good.

If Sam hadn't called, then Sam was fine.

That was their deal.

That was their plan.

_If you need me, call me. _

And Sam hadn't called, so Sam was fine.

Dean didn't need to worry about his sick little brother because Sam was sleeping off his fever; was getting the rest his body so desperately needed and would be better and more lucid when Dean returned to their hotel room.

Everything was fine.

No news was good news...and all that crap.

So relax, Dean, and ask the nice Museum Man a question to show that you're actually paying attention.

Dean nodded and turned as the Museum Man mentioned offerings.

Because sometimes offerings led to some dark shit; _their kind_ of dark shit.

"What were the offerings?"

Museum Man tilted his head and made a sound like he didn't quite catch what Dean had asked.

Dean tried not to sigh – because really, he didn't have time to repeat himself if he was going to wrap this up and get back to Sam soon.

Museum Man blinked at him expectantly.

Dean decided to rephrase. "Ah, what did the Great Spirit's sacred messenger ask for?"

Because Dean knew what _he_ would ask for if he could have anything he wanted right now – a healthy little brother.

A little brother who didn't cough up blood and spike fevers and struggle to stand and talk about things that never even happened.

_That's_ what Dean wanted.

Dean wanted a healthy, happy, safe Sammy.

The big brother sighed.

Because that was not the kind of Sammy that was sleeping back at the hotel...and that was _so fucking unfair_ for both of them, especially after everything else they had been through in their crappy lives.

They deserved better.

They deserved their happy ending, dammit.

Dean clenched his jaw.

"Stories," the Museum Man was saying when Dean refocused on him, was answering Dean's earlier question about what the sacred messenger had asked for. "He asked the people to tell him stories."

Dean nodded like that made sense and crossed to one of the old photographs displayed on the wall, narrowing his eyes at one of the Indians pictured.

_You're not...you're not really supposed to say 'Indians'..._

Dean smiled fondly, remembering Sam telling him that back home at the Batcave and knowing he would be getting the same lesson now if Sam was there.

But Sam wasn't there.

Sam was at the hotel...sick and asleep and running a fever...and by himself.

Dean sighed.

Okay. That was it.

He really needed to go.

His mind wasn't on this case or anything else right now.

His mind was on _Sam..._and _with Sam_ was where Dean needed to be.

And _with Sam_ was where Dean _intended_ to be in about ten minutes.

Maybe even less if Dean could figure out how to shave a few of those minutes off the drive back to the hotel.

Dean nodded, preparing to tell Museum Man that he appreciated his help and time but he needed to leave...and then paused when he remembered why he had been staring at the faded photograph.

Because one of the Indians seemed strangely familiar...like Dean had seen him before; had _recently_ seen him.

Dean leaned forward for a better look, his eyes slightly widening in recognition as he realized the Indian standing on the left was Dr. Scowly-Scowl himself.

The hotel manager looking _exactly_ the same in this photograph from hundreds of years ago as he did now.

Holy crap.

This just got interesting.

Museum Man had continued to stand behind Dean, talking about the stories the sacred messenger had asked the people for all those years ago, but Dean had seen and heard all he needed.

"I bet I know what the blessings were..." Dean predicted, still staring at the photograph and then startling when his phone suddenly rang.

Museum Man frowned at the unexpected intrusion. "Sir..." he began, his tone as shocked and disapproving as his expression. "Since we consider this a sacred place to honor our ancestors, we ask that visitors not use modern technol – "

Dean held up his hand to stop the speech, because yeah...he didn't care.

Sorry.

And Sam would have probably bitchfaced him about that, too, because Dean had now been rude not once, but _twice_.

But guess what?

Sam wasn't there.

Instead, Sam was calling from the hotel.

And even though Dean had known that, seeing the kid's name on the caller display of his phone made his heart pound while panic and fear tightened his chest.

"I never should've left you alone..." Dean muttered, freshly annoyed with himself.

Museum Man tilted his head in confusion.

Dean scowled. "I gotta take this..." he announced and stepped away.

Museum Man watched.

Dean accepted the call before the first ring had finished and pressed his phone to his ear.

"Sam..." Dean answered and held his breath.

Because this was going to end one of three ways – loopy Sam calling to discuss something equally loopy...sick Sam calling to ask Dean to come back to the hotel...or too-sick-to-speak Sam calling his big brother out of instinct, which would speak loudest of all.

And since seconds had now passed and Sam hadn't spoken, Dean instantly knew which scenario he was living.

"Shit..." Dean hissed, vaguely wondering if Museum Man was staring at him because the guy could hear his heart pounding.

Dean gripped his phone, pressing it tighter against his ear, listening for clues.

"Sam..."

But Sam didn't respond.

More accurately, Sam _couldn't_ respond.

Because Sam was unconscious.

No longer asleep but _passed the fuck out_.

Dean knew because he could hear Sam breathing into the phone, could detect the subtle difference from years of experience with listening to his brother breathe in the bed next to his...in the passenger seat...across the table...right beside him or right behind him on a hunt.

Dean knew Sam's breathing patterns – every single one of them.

And what he was hearing now was a passed out Sam.

Dean swallowed at the implication, his mind buzzing with a hundred different ways this could have happened.

But the details didn't matter.

What mattered was that Sam had followed through with their plan – _if you need me, call me_ – and had managed to call Dean before undoubtedly dropping like a rock.

Dean only hoped that Sam had dropped in their room and not somewhere else at the hotel.

But Dean couldn't hear any other movement on the opposite end of the line...just Sam's slow, shallow breaths.

So that was a good sign.

In this otherwise fucked-up situation, that was a good sign.

It meant there was a good chance that Sam was not in danger – was not being abducted or attacked or god knows what else.

Sam was most likely still alone and relatively safe from outside forces.

Instead, the battle was _inside; _was_ internal._

The enemy was the slow burn of a rising fever consuming Sam's body like a barn on fire; the increasing temperature scorching Sam's system to the point of completely shutting down.

Like when an overheated machine automatically clicked off and powered down, conserving energy as it turned inward to reboot and restart.

But Sam's body couldn't reboot and restart if his fever had reached a certain level.

Sam would need help cooling down – would need _Dean's_ help...which was why the kid had called.

_If you need me, call me. _

Sam had followed through with his end of the deal.

It was Dean's turn now.

"Okay..." Dean sighed, trying to pull himself together and _think_.

Because Sam needed him to think.

Sam was counting on him to make this better.

_Sam had called him. _

Dean swallowed. "Sammy. I'm coming, okay?" he soothed his brother, knowing Sam couldn't respond but unable to resist the big brother default – to soothe your little brother when he was sick or injured whether he could respond to you or not.

So Dean continued to talk.

"Just hang tight, man..." he urged Sam. "I'm coming. Okay? I'm coming _right now_."

But first...

Dean twisted his phone away from his mouth, still holding it against his hear to listen to Sam breathe but focusing on Museum Man who continued to stand nearby.

"Hey..." Dean called, although the man was staring straight at him. "This is a museum _and_ trading post, right?"

Museum Man nodded.

"Which means you have ice?"

Because a trading post was similar to a general store and most general stores had ice, so...this place had to have ice, too.

The logic made sense to Dean.

Museum Man blinked. "Ice?" he repeated as though he had never heard of it.

_Jesus..._

"Ice," Dean confirmed, his tone sharp. "_Bags_ of ice," he added. "I need _bags of ice_."

Maybe five or six or however many this place had.

Dean would take the whole fucking freezer because he knew with the sixth sense of a big brother that Sam was burning up. That his little brother was literally burning alive from the inside, and he would have to get Sam's fever down _fast_.

Tub full of ice water fast.

But before Dean could do that, he needed the fucking ice, so...

"Hey!" Dean barked, snapping his fingers in front of Museum Man's face. "Do you have ice or not?"

Because Dean would rather buy a shitload of ice here and haul it back to the hotel than have to make god knows how many trips to the hotel ice machine.

There wouldn't be time for that.

Honestly, there was even time for _this._

Dean sighed harshly, about _this close_ to doing something he would probably regret...when Museum Man finally nodded.

"Yes," he answered, understandably wary of Dean, and gestured to the left of the room. "The trading post is on the other side of the building. They have bags of ice and – "

" – good," Dean interrupted, not needing a list of other items they kept stocked.

As long as they had ice, Dean didn't give a rat's ass what else they had.

He just needed ice, and he needed it _right fucking now_.

Dean nodded. "Thanks," he told Museum Man before refocusing on his phone and holding still long enough to listen to Sam breathe.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Slow and shallow but steady.

That was good.

"Atta boy, Sammy..." Dean praised his unconscious brother over the phone. "Just keep breathing, man. Keep hanging on. I'm coming..."

And with that, Dean ran out of the museum, keeping his phone to his ear as he dodged a few people on the sidewalk and burst into the trading post next door.

"I need ice," Dean announced. "_Now_."

The older woman behind the counter blinked at him. "Sure," she agreed, seemingly unruffled at being growled at by a stranger.

She smoothed her braid over her shoulder.

"What size bag?" she asked. "We have small, medium, lar – "

" – large," Dean told her. "Definitely large. However many you have..."

Because Dean's little brother was _large..._and it was going to take a _large_ amount of ice to fill the hotel room bathtub.

The woman nodded. "Sure," she replied again, patient and kind. "There's a freezer on the front porch," she told him, gesturing outside.

Dean nodded, not even bothering to look. "Good. Help me load it," he ordered. "I'll drive up..." he added and exited the trading post.

The woman arched an eyebrow but followed behind her customer, waiting on the porch as the stranger crossed to a big black car parked in front of the museum.

"Sam..." Dean called, his hand cramping from how tightly he was still holding his phone. "I'm coming," he assured his brother. "I know it feels like fucking forever..."

Or at least, it did to Dean.

"But I'm coming, man..." the big brother promised. "You keep breathing and not dying, you hear me?"

Dean knew he did.

Somewhere deep down, Sam always heard him.

Just like Dean always heard Sam.

Dean swallowed, digging the Impala's keys from his pocket as he walked; unlocking the driver's side door and sliding behind the steering wheel; cranking the engine and driving the short distance from the museum to the trading post.

Listening to Sam breathe the entire time.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Dean smiled. "Good, Sammy..." he told his brother and parked the Impala, leaving the engine running and the driver's side door open as he joined the woman on the porch of the trading post.

"We have six large bags," she reported and gestured toward the freezer. "You still want them all?"

"Yes," Dean replied. "Absolutely."

He only wished there was more.

But six bags would work.

He would run the tub with cold water first and then add the ice...and that would work.

That would _have_ to work.

Dean nodded in agreement with his plan and reached into the freezer as the woman opened the small front door, grabbing the tops of two bags and crossing to the Impala.

The woman did the same but carried one bag of ice in each hand.

Dean didn't have that luxury, still holding his phone with one hand and then propping it between his chin and shoulder as he opened the backseat door.

The woman frowned, clearly wondering why they weren't loading the bags of ice in the trunk.

But Dean didn't have time for that since the key to the trunk was on the same ring as the key to the actual Impala, which was still in the ignition since the Chevy was still running...and Dean didn't have time to explain all of this, just load the fucking bags in the backseat.

Thanks.

Dean sighed, nodding his permission. "Just put them in..." he told her, slinging his bags of ice on the seat and then turning to cross back to the freezer for the last two.

Because his first two, plus the woman's first two, plus these last two would equal six.

Two, four, six.

Six large bags of ice.

The woman watched the stranger approach, having loaded her two bags of ice and now just standing by the Impala; the car rumbling as the engine continued to run.

Dean loaded the last two bags in the backseat and slammed the door. "How much?" he asked the woman, reassured by the constant sound of Sam breathing in his ear over the phone.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

"Twenty," the woman answered.

Twenty dollars to potentially save Sam's life.

It was a bargain.

It was _fucking priceless_.

Just please, please, _please_ let this work.

Please let Dean get back to the hotel in time.

Please let Sam keep breathing.

_Please..._

The woman blinked at Dean, patiently waiting with her hands clasped in front of her.

Dean nodded, acknowledging the price of the ice, and slid his wallet from his back pocket; propping it against his hip long enough to open it with one hand and pull out a twenty dollar bill.

The woman accepted it as Dean returned his wallet to his jeans and resumed his place behind the Impala's steering wheel, still holding his phone as he reached with his other hand to close the driver's side door.

But the woman intervened, suddenly grasping the edge of the door and keeping it open.

Dean glared, preparing to warn her that he _would_ drag her down the fucking street if she didn't let go...but the woman spoke first.

"May the Great Spirit be with you," she told him, looking directly at Dean. "May you succeed as you battle fire with ice."

Dean blinked.

Because how could this woman possibly know what he was planning to do with the ice?

How could she know what kind of battle awaited him back at the hotel?

How could she know what Dean stood to lose if this ice didn't bring Sam's fever down?

How could she know?

Yet as Dean briefly held her gaze, he had no doubt that she did – she _knew_.

Dean swallowed. "Thank you," he replied; genuinely appreciative, strangely calmed.

The woman nodded, releasing the Impala's door as she turned and disappeared inside the trading post.

Dean sat there in the driver's seat, momentarily stunned by her words.

Over the phone, Sam continued to breathe in Dean's ear, reminding the big brother of who was waiting for him back at the hotel; of who was counting on him; of who needed him to snap out of it and move his ass.

Dean nodded, pulling the driver's side door shut and shifting the Impala into gear.

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean called to his unconscious brother. "I'm coming..." he promised, his entire boot covering the gas pedal as he floored it.

The Impala instantly responded, surging forward with a spray of gravel and a cloud of dust as she spun out of the parking lot and onto the highway, heading back to the hotel.

* * *

_**TBC**_


	3. Chapter 3

"You'll never guess who I saw at the museum..." Dean told Sam one minute into his drive back to the hotel, sounding like a gossiping old woman who had seen her reclusive neighbor at the grocery store and just _had_ to tell someone about it.

But Sam, of course, didn't guess.

Because Sam was unconscious.

Was undoubtedly sprawled on the floor of their hotel room if Dean had to predict the kid's location.

Was being consumed by fever _right this fucking second_ even as Dean raced to reach him.

Was silently burning and slowly slipping away.

But was still breathing...

Thank god..._still breathing_.

Dean could hear him over the phone.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

The slow, shallow, _steady_ sound was reassuring and grounding and the only thing keeping Dean from completely losing his shit right now.

Because Dean should already _be_ at the hotel; should never have left Sam by himself.

Sam had been sick and feverish...and was now unconscious and unresponsive...and Dean should _fucking be there_.

But no.

Dean had left; had convinced himself it was safe to leave Sam for no more than an hour and was now living one version of a big brother's nightmare – a sick little brother needing help while Dean was still _nine fucking minutes_ away from him.

Dean clenched his jaw – freshly pissed at himself, at this entire situation – and pressed harder on the gas pedal; knowing the Impala was already running at maximum speed but desperate for her to go faster.

She tried.

The classic Chevy's engine revved with the extra jolt of fuel and then evened out at a marginally faster speed.

Dean nodded his approval, smoothing his hand over the steering wheel in silent praise of his best girl, and then refocused on the only thing he loved more than their dad's old muscle car – Sammy.

Dean twitched a smile at the thought of him. "Sam..." he called, because it just made him feel better to say the kid's name.

Sam answered him the only way he could, breathing in and out.

Dean chuckled tiredly. "I sure am glad you faceplanted beside your phone, man..."

Because if Dean wasn't able to hear his brother inhale and exhale, if Dean didn't _know_ that Sam was breathing, he would...

Dean shook his head, unable to finish the thought because he didn't know what he would do if he thought Sam was already gone.

And he didn't want to think about it.

Because there was still a danger that the fever might take Sam...that the _trials_ might take Sam.

After all, there was one more trial to complete.

And only Sam could do it.

The only way out was _through_.

Dean sighed and shook his head again, tightening his grip around his phone; his hand and arm aching from having held it to his ear since Sam had called over ten minutes ago.

And speaking of time...

Dean glanced at his watch.

Eight more minutes to go before he reached the hotel.

Maybe less since the Impala was _fucking flying_ down the highway.

If a cop tried to stop him, then the cop would be shit of out luck.

Because Dean wasn't stopping – he had a backseat full of melting ice and an unconscious little brother to save.

Everything else could fuck off.

Dean nodded and glanced over his shoulder at the bags of ice piled on top of each other, relieved that they were still more solid than liquid.

Which was good since Dean would need every single cube of ice in the bathtub...

Dean nodded once more. "I've got ice," he announced to Sam. "Six bags in the backseat with your name on 'em." He paused. "So, guess what that means?"

Sam breathed.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

"That's right," Dean confirmed as if Sam had actually spoken. "It's bath time for Sammy."

And wasn't that going to be fun?

Dean knew from experience that Sam was all legs and all arms all over the place when the kid was unconscious.

Picking him up was like trying to wrestle with an octopus.

So, good times ahead...

Dean sighed.

Checked his speed, checked his watch.

Still flying down the highway like a proverbial bat out of hell with seven minutes to go...

"I know you're not gonna like it..." Dean continued about Sam's impending ice bath, glancing to his rearview and then back to the road. "But it's the only way, man. I mean...I don't know how high your fever is yet...but I think it's the only way."

Even though basic first aid warned against doing that – warned against plunging an overheated body into ice due to the risk of causing shock from transitioning so quickly from one extreme to another.

Plus, there was the fact that while submerging a person in ice would decrease body temperature, doing so would also lead to shivering...which in turn would just raise the person's temperature again.

And 'round and 'round you went – too hot, too cold...too hot, too cold.

Dean sighed, suddenly uncertain about what he planned to do, about how he planned to handle this situation.

Because Sam's life literally depended on the choice Dean made, and that would never get easier.

But desperate times called for desperate measures...and Dean was desperate – was _so fucking desperate. _

Battling for Sam always made him feel that way.

Dean swallowed and flexed his hand – a nervous gesture of splaying his fingers out and then slowly curling them back around the steering wheel as he continued to drive while his other hand continued to cramp from holding the phone.

But Dean didn't care.

No way in hell was he hanging up.

Not when Sam had called him.

Not when Dean _needed_ to hear Sam breathing on the opposite end of the line until he could actually see the kid for himself.

Dean's hand would just have to cramp and tingle because he was staying on the phone with his brother even if their conversation was one-sided.

Dean nodded and sighed.

Okay.

Focus...

Speed check, time check.

The Impala was still traveling at topped-out speed.

And Dean had six minutes before he was back at the hotel, back to Sam.

"I'm taking your temperature when I get there..." Dean warned his brother, was glad he had tucked the thermometer in his kit before they had left the Batcave; was glad he had brought it along on this trip even though Sam had refused it earlier.

But now the kid had no choice.

Dean was taking his temperature.

And if Sam's fever was as high as Dean suspected it was, then he would make his little brother an instant member of the Polar Bear Club and would just deal with the consequences.

Hell, they had towels at the hotel – _lots_ of towels.

So, Dean would be ready; would be standing by the bathtub ready to wrap Sam with as many towels as the kid needed once he was awake.

Dean would make sure this was done safely, that Sam was cooled down and then warmed up so his temperature would regulate...or at least would regulate as much as it could when under attack from a supernaturally-fueled fever.

On the opposite end of the line, Sam breathed.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Dean smiled.

His kid brother was a _fucking rock star_ with this breathing routine.

"Keep it up, Sammy..." Dean encouraged. "You're doing good, man. And I'm coming. I _swear_ I'm coming..."

Because it felt like Dean was never going to get there.

"I'm..."

Dean glanced at his watch.

"I'm five minutes away, Sammy..."

Though, maybe it was even less because the diner Dean had just passed was only three minutes from the hotel.

He knew that because he had gotten lunch there earlier and had brought it back to their room...for whatever that had been worth since Sam hadn't eaten his.

Dean frowned at the memory, vaguely wondering if _that _was why Sam had passed out – low blood sugar.

It was possible...but not likely.

If Sam hadn't passed out from three _days_ of not eating, then it was doubtful that he had lost consciousness due to skipping lunch.

But still...

"You're gonna start eating again, Sam..." Dean informed his brother, his gaze flickering from windshield to rearview and back again. "I mean it. If I bring food or cook food, then you're gonna fucking eat it. You hear me?"

Because Dean didn't want to be a nagging motherhen, but this shit was ridiculous.

Sam was getting too thin.

And a guy Sam's height couldn't afford to be too thin.

It wasn't healthy, and Dean wasn't tolerating it anymore.

So there...

Dean nodded, having no problem enforcing his authority as big brother.

On the other end of the phone, Sam breathed.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

"Good job, Sammy..." Dean praised, his chest tightening as he realized how bad things were if you were praising your brother for _breathing_.

But yeah, that was their life now.

And so fucking what?

Dean would praise Sam for breathing if he wanted to.

"Damn right I will..." Dean muttered, agreeing with his own inner dialogue. "Good job, Sammy..." he repeated to his breathing little brother and then blinked when he passed the corner grocery store.

Because a time check told him that he should be four minutes away from the hotel, but Dean _knew_ that grocery store was only two minutes from the parking lot.

Dean smiled, feeling a brief wave of relief, and proudly patted the Impala's dash before resuming his grip on the steering wheel.

Because he also knew that the only reason he was getting back to Sam two minutes earlier than expected was because his best girl was running like a thoroughbred jacked up on...

Well...whatever thoroughbreds got jacked up on.

Dean shrugged.

He didn't know.

And that didn't matter.

What mattered was that Dean's car was fucking awesome and had once again come through for him – just like family.

Dean smiled, listening to his other family – his _only _family – breathe in his ear; Sam's exhalations sounding like a breeze blowing through the phone.

"I'm almost there, Sammy..." Dean told his brother as he drove. "I can see the hotel sign."

And he could.

It was _right there_ on the horizon.

Which meant Dean was _this close_ to his brother.

"Almost there..." Dean repeated and then sighed. "I think I'm going to get one of those cart things to load the ice and bring it up," he commented, still talking into the phone like Sam could hear him. "You know, one of those bellman cart things, or whatever..."

Dean wasn't really sure what they were called, but he knew Sam would know what he was talking about.

Because this is how it worked between them – Dean brainstorming aloud while Sam filled in the gaps and corrected his vocabulary and eventually either nodded or shook his head, depending on Dean's idea.

But Dean knew that Sam would be nodding right now since this idea was a good one.

Dean nodded as well, liking the idea himself.

It would certainly be the easiest and quickest way; the only way Dean could carry all six bags of ice in one trip and not have to leave Sam.

Because that wasn't an option – once Dean was back with Sam, he was _not_ leaving the kid again.

On his end of the phone, Sam breathed.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Dean took it as an agreement.

"Alright," he told his brother. "That's what I'll do. Good thing we're staying in a place nice enough to _have_ those cart things, huh?"

Dean smiled and turned left into the hotel's parking lot.

"Okay, Sammy. I'm here," Dean announced, roughly braking and snatching the keys from the ignition, knowing the Impala would forgive him.

After all, this was for Sam – the Chevy's second favorite Winchester.

Giving a quick check to the bags of ice still piled in the backseat, Dean opened the driver's side door, then slammed it behind him as he jogged up the sidewalk.

"The eagle has landed," Dean joked into the phone, knowing Sam would've rolled his eyes if the kid had been awake.

But Sam only breathed.

That precious, rhythmic sound that had been Dean's lifeline ever since the big brother had answered Sam's call back at the museum.

Dean smiled, suddenly overwhelmed with the urge to cry but quickly shook it off.

Because there wasn't time for that – emotions would have to wait.

He was here now.

And Sam needed him.

He had a job to do.

And he was damn well going to do it.

Dean nodded, pulling open the hotel door and entering the lobby; momentarily pausing as his gaze swept the area, looking for a luggage cart.

He didn't see one.

Dean sighed. "Where would they be, Sam?" he asked his unconscious brother laying on the floor upstairs.

Because that was the kind of shit Sam always seemed to instinctively know.

Sam breathed in response.

"You're no help," Dean grumbled good-naturedly and then saw what he was looking for – a luggage cart in the room behind the check-in desk.

Dean nodded.

"Yahtzee," he quipped and crossed the lobby. "I found one," he told his brother, keeping Sam informed over the phone.

Seconds later, Dean was pulling the cart from the room, attracting the attention of the hotel manager who seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

Fast and quiet like a ninja but creepy and mysterious like...

Well, like a _Scooby-Doo_ villain.

It seemed loopy Sam had pegged that pretty good.

Dean narrowed his eyes at Dr. Scowly-Scowl, remembering the old photograph at the museum and reminded that they needed to find out more about this guy's link to the sacred messenger.

But first, Dean needed to save his little brother...

"I'm taking this," Dean told Dr. Scowly-Scowl and offered no other explanation for going behind the check-in desk like he owned the place.

Predictably, Dr. Scowly-Scowl said nothing; only watched as Dean maneuvered the cart with one hand while still holding his phone to his ear with the other.

"And, ah...I'll be back down to chat later," Dean added dryly, glancing over his shoulder at the hotel manager. "I have some questions for you..."

But like everything else, those questions would have to wait until Sam was okay.

Speaking of...

"Alright, Sammy..." Dean called into the phone, backing out of the hotel door and pulling the cart with him. "I'm gettin' the ice and then I'm comin' up...and then it's rubber ducky time."

Dean quirked a smile, approaching the Impala and imagining Sam's unamused expression if his brother had been awake to hear Dean use that phrase – the one they used to refer to toddler Sam's bath time.

Dean's smile lingered, needing _something_ to distract him from the dread he felt at what awaited upstairs in their room, and listened to Sam breathe over the phone as he loaded the bags of ice on the cart.

Hardly a minute later, Dean was stepping off the elevator.

"I'm here, Sam..." Dean told his brother, walking down the hallway of their floor while pushing the cart in front of him.

Sam breathed.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

And within seconds, Dean not only heard Sam...he _saw_ him.

_Finally..._

Dean swallowed as he stood in the doorway of their room, having expected to feel better not worse when he finally laid eyes on his brother.

But Sam looked _bad_ – was sweaty and pale with the flush of fever on his cheeks and around his eyes and...

"Okay..." Dean sighed, trying to draw his attention away from everything that was wrong and instead focus on what he had to do to make it _right_.

Dean nodded and ended the call, tossing his phone on his bed as he pushed the luggage cart into the room and kicked the door shut behind him.

"Sammy..."

Sam didn't respond.

Dean didn't expect him to.

At this point, as long as Sam kept breathing, Dean would be happy.

And Sam did.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Dean crouched beside his brother, his gaze traveling the length of Sam's body before he brushed damp bangs aside to briefly palm Sam's forehead, then cup his jaw.

"Jesus..." Dean quietly swore, because his kid was _burning up_.

Was uncomfortable to touch and had a pulse that was _fucking galloping_ beneath Dean's fingers as he pressed them against Sam's neck.

Dean sighed, feeling his own heart hammer in his chest.

"Okay, Sammy. Okay..."

Dean stood, crossing to the bathroom.

"I got this, man. I got you. Just hang on..."

Sam breathed, oblivious to Dean sealing the drain in the tub and turning the faucet full blast; cold water rushing forth, splattering against the bottom and sides.

Dean held his fingers under the flow, nodding his approval at the freezing water, and then wiped his hand on his jeans as he turned to the sink, grabbing his kit from the counter and snatching the thermometer from inside.

"Guess who's getting their temperature taken..." Dean sing-songed as he crossed back to Sam still sprawled on the floor in the main room.

Sam had no guesses.

"That's right," Dean praised as if Sam had answered correctly. "You."

And with that, Dean was crouched beside his brother again; carefully parting Sam's lips with the tip of the thermometer, then pointing it slightly down to gently maneuver under Sam's tongue.

"Feels right..." Dean commented, having done this before, and then pressed the button to start the thermometer while holding it in place.

Dean sighed, watching Sam breathe; listening to the tub fill with water in the bathroom behind him.

"I say 105, maybe 106..." Dean predicted about Sam's temperature as the thermometer continued its own measurements and calculations.

Sam didn't weigh in with his prediction; he just breathed.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Dean glanced around the room, then back to his brother.

The tub continued to fill with water in the next room.

Dean shifted, his legs beginning to ache from crouching like this.

"Oh. Hey..." Dean called, suddenly remembering what he had originally wanted to tell Sam when he had first started the drive back to the hotel. "Guess who I saw at the museum..."

Dean paused, not for Sam to reply but to instead check the thermometer still doing its temperature reading thing.

Which seemed to be taking too long, but whatever...

Dean shrugged. "Anyway...there's apparently more to the hotel manager than meets the eye," he confided to Sam. "There was this old picture at the museum...we're talking _hundreds_ of years old...and our friend Dr. Scowly-Scowl was in it looking just like he does now."

Sam breathed, unimpressed.

Dean continued. "The guy at the museum was saying that this place is the home on earth to the Great Spirit's sacred messenger and how that messenger wanted stories, and just...I don't know. I'm thinking maybe this hotel manager guy is somehow linked. Maybe linked to Metatron? Maybe..."

Dean's voice trailed off as the thermometer beeped.

"Finally..." Dean grumbled, carefully pulling it from Sam's mouth and then frowning at the temperature flashing at him from the tiny screen. "One hundred and seven?" he blurted.

Because at 108, people _fucking die_, Sam.

What the hell?

"Shit..." Dean hissed, tossing the thermometer on his bed as he stood; his sense of urgency instantly renewed.

But Sam was unfazed, just laying there...breathing.

_In and out..._

_In and out..._

Dean swallowed, realizing what a miracle that was with a fever of 107.

Jesus...

Dean's attention flickered to the bathroom, hearing the water continue to fill the tub, and then reached for the luggage cart still loaded with bags of ice beginning to drip on the carpet.

"Be right back, Sammy..." Dean told his brother, pushing the cart around Sam and into the bathroom; turning the faucet to shut off the water and then tearing the plastic bags open with both hands; dumping the ice into the tub.

Seconds later, Dean was back in the main room; shoving the cart to the corner and crossing to Sam for the final part of this.

Dean sighed.

And now for the next event – octopus wrestling.

Dean shook his head, once again crouching beside Sam; one hand reaching for Sam's arms, while the other reached for Sam's legs.

"You know..." Dean began, leaning slightly forward to lower his shoulder. "This was a hell of a lot easier when you were little..."

Dean smiled at the memory of Sam being short and scrawny and having hands that fit inside Dean's grasp.

"But now..." Dean continued, draping Sam's body over his shoulder and wincing as he lifted his brother in a fireman carry. "Now you're fucking huge..."

But light...

_Shockingly_ light.

Thinner and lighter than he had been in years, and Dean frowned at the realization.

Because yeah, he knew Sam hadn't been eating, but shit...

This was easier than it should've been.

Dean could feel Sam's ribs against his shoulder as he carried the kid into the bathroom.

Dean shook his head, instantly over this hunger strike routine Sam had going on these past few weeks.

"You are definitely eating when you wake up..." Dean told his brother, swallowing a grunt as he braced himself and lowered Sam into the tub, the ice water sloshing as Sam sank.

Dean followed his brother down as far as he could, being careful with Sam's arms and legs; his hand hovering between Sam's head and the edge of the tub until Sam was completely submerged – was nothing but a blur of color beneath the water.

Dean swallowed, his heart hammering in his chest; his gaze alternating between his watch and his brother.

Because this _had_ to work...but it had to work _quickly_.

After all, Sam couldn't _breathe_ underwater.

Seconds passed.

"C'mon, Sammy..." Dean encouraged, standing beside the tub while he waited.

Waited to succeed as he battled fire with ice...

* * *

_**FIN...since I think we all know what happens next. ;)**_


End file.
